Mistletoe in Texas, page 26
“And it doesn’t bother you that Wyatt is also her friend?”
Hank winced but held firm. “So maybe she can persuade me to stop wanting to strangle him.”
Bing folded her arms and glared. Hank forced himself to hold her gaze. After a dozen angry breaths, she swore and kicked her heel against the front of the stove with a bang! “This is a bad idea.”
“I don’t think so.” Hank walked over and squeezed her rigid shoulders. “But if I’m wrong, you are welcome to say you told me so.”
She dropped her head against his collarbone with a thunk. “Don’t think I won’t.”
“I have no doubt.” He dropped a smacking kiss on the top of her head. “Love you too.”
His dad made a gagging sound.
“You see how I turned out this way?” Hank turned to frown at Johnny. “And while we’re talking about feelings—if you hate cows, and I hate cows, how come we’ve got a whole ranch full of ’em?”
Johnny shrugged. “It’s what my dad did, and his dad…I figured that was what I was supposed to do too.”
“Geezus. That’s depressing.”
“You’re telling me.” Johnny lifted his coffee cup toward Hank. “If you’ve got any better ideas how to keep this place afloat, I’m all ears.”
He just might, based on a conversation he’d overheard at Miz Iris’s house during Thanksgiving dinner. It would be an excellent way to rid themselves of their bovine affliction, but Hank would have to sell the idea to one of the most powerful men in Texas. And he would have to promise to stay right here, living and working on the ranch…with his father.
“I’ll give it some thought,” he said, and made his nightly escape to the apartment.
Chapter 40
It had been the longest week of Grace’s life…and it was only Thursday. The Thursday. The opening night of the National Finals, when she was finally going to see Hank again.
He had kept in touch. Two or three texts a day—mostly funny pictures of Spider and Mabel, or of the horses, or the sun streaming down on the river bottom with Wish you were here, maybe next Sunday? And he had called on Wednesday night, almost exactly when she walked in the door of her apartment, as if he’d been counting down the minutes to when he guessed she’d get home. Her heart had done an uncertain swoop and dive at the sight of his number. Was he calling to confirm their date, or call it off?
Or, it turned out, set some ground rules. After a few mindless minutes of conversation—her day, his day, and yeah, he’d finally tracked down the last of the calves—he had cleared his throat. “So, um, about tomorrow night.”
Grace closed her eyes. Damn. Here it comes.
“I can’t have sex with you,” he blurted.
Her eyes popped open. “What?”
“I mean, I can’t have sex with you there.” He heaved an embattled sigh. “The last summer I worked for Jacobs Livestock, Shawnee borrowed Tori’s trailer. She and Cole hooked up in that trailer. There is literally no place in, on, or up against where I could have sex with you and not imagine them there before us.”
“Ah…okay. I see your point.” And more than she’d ever wanted to about Shawnee and Cole. “We could go over to my apartment for a few hours.”
“I know, but I’ve been thinking.” He cleared his throat, sounding reluctant but determined. “We have both changed, Grace. I’d like to get to know you again, and the sex makes it hard for me to see straight. How ’bout we just hang out until the Finals is over and you’re back in your own place?”
She dropped her bag on the floor. When she’d said she needed time, she didn’t mean ten days. The hum that had been building inside her all week faded, a dying whine like a jet engine shutting down at the arrival gate.
“If that’s what you want—” she began.
Before she could add the but, he jumped in. “Great. I’m glad we agree. Now I’ve gotta go. The damn cows busted the cake feeder today shoving each other around to get there first, and I have to weld it back together so I can feed in the morning. But I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
What could she do but agree?
And now Thursday was finally here, and it felt like there was a swarm of grasshoppers jumping around in Grace’s stomach when she pulled into Tori’s yard and saw Hank’s old maroon-and-white Chevy parked beside the trailer. He met her at the door wearing black nylon sweats, looking dark and delicious, and looped his arms over her shoulders to draw her in for a long, lazy kiss that had her seeing stars.
He eased away to grin down at her. “Hi, honey. How was your day?”
Endless. “Fine. You?”
“There were cows. Other than that, it was great.”
The trailer was usually chilly when she got home, but Hank had already cranked up the thermostat so it was toasty warm inside, and filled with the scent of barbecue wafting from the cartons on the counter.
Hank caught the direction of her gaze and gave her a little shove toward the closet. “I’ll warm everything up while you get changed.”
Following his lead, she grabbed sweats, a T-shirt, and a BLUEGRASS ATHLETICS sweatshirt. It was probably silly to be self-conscious at this point, but she went into the bathroom to undress. After a moment’s hesitation, she shucked her bra, too. Might as well get really comfortable. She unclipped the barrette and let her hair spring free, then finger-combed the mess of curls.
When she came out, he had supper waiting on the small bar. Damn. His butt looked even better with a snug, black waffle-knit shirt accenting the long, graceful line from shoulders to hips as he reached into the cupboard and got her a plate. “Dish up. I’ll turn on the TV.”
While she forked up brisket, he swung the flat-screen around on the wall mount so it faced the couch and punched buttons on the remote that had given Grace fits. The distinctive voices of the NFR commentators filled the space, crackling with anticipation.
“You’re more at home in here than I am,” Grace said.
“When Shawnee and Cole didn’t have the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the doorknob, I spent as much time as I could in here.” His chest brushed hard and warm against her shoulder, and she inhaled the woodsy scent of his deodorant as he reached over her head for another plate. “She had satellite TV, the best food, and the best air conditioner.”
A pang shot through Grace, imagining what it must be like to travel week after week, rodeo to rodeo, all across Texas and the adjoining states. “Don’t you miss it?” she blurted.
His body went still for a heartbeat. Then he rested his hands on the counter, framing her between his arms as he said softly, “Every. Single. Day.”
Grace let her silence ask the question. Then…why?
His chest rose and fell against her back as he sighed. “I choked, Grace. I didn’t let that bull run me down in Toppenish. I just…froze.”
“But at the Buck Out—”
“I didn’t have time to think. Suiting up and walking out there with everyone counting on me?” His body moved restlessly. “I can’t do that unless I’m sure.”
And how could he be sure, short of actually putting himself and others in danger? She scooped macaroni salad onto her plate, then stared down at it. “What was wrong with you that day?”
“You mean, what was I on?” He gave a soft, mocking laugh. “Gummy bears.”
“What?” She cranked her head around, expecting a joke, but he was anything but amused.
“Washington State has legalized pot, and after I saw Mariah that first night, I was wired pretty tight. One of the bull riders gave me a couple of pot gummy bears to help me chill.” He tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling, as if still asking himself Why? “I wasn’t planning to eat them, but then I couldn’t sleep. The first one didn’t do anything, so after about an hour I ate the second one. And then—wham! I was messed up, and so freaking paranoid I couldn’t even sit still. I was so wiped out when I got to the rodeo that afternoon, I couldn’t see straight. I should have called in sick.”
Yeah, like that was something bullfighters did. And besides… “Who would have taken your place?”
“I don’t know. Someone who wasn’t semiconscious?”
“And at least three steps slower than you and even more likely to be out of position.”
He breathed a laugh into her hair. “Have you been talking to Bing behind my back?”
“No. It’s just logic.”
He gave her waist a grateful squeeze. “I can’t logic those pictures out of my head. And I can’t take the chance that I’ll snap in the middle of the arena again.”
Grace wanted to argue, but there was nothing she could say that he hadn’t already heard from Bing—and probably from Gil, too.
Hank turned her loose. “Grab your plate. The rodeo’s starting.”
And the bareback riding was just getting under way, always the opening event. There was Delon, the silver fringes of his chaps sparkling as he danced from foot to foot on the platform behind the bucking chutes. Grace slid into the banquette, and Hank bumped her over with his hip so he could sit beside her, instead of across. The brush of his arm against hers sent tingles racing through her body.
No, Gracie, this isn’t high school anymore.
And then the camera zoomed in on Delon as he lowered himself into the bucking chute.
“Delon Sanchez couldn’t start the Finals with a better draw,” the commentator declared. “Blue Rose is even more spectacular than his mother, Riata Rose. If they get tapped off, this could be the ride of the night.”
Grace felt the tension winding up in Hank’s body, echoing her own as Delon worked his glove into the rigging. Steve leaned over the chute, lacing his fingers in the horse’s mane, gently rocking him back and forth while Cole set the flank strap. Then Delon slid into position and nodded his head.
The first jump out of the chute, the horse leapt so high that he seemed to hang in the air, Delon square in the middle of his back. Again, and again, and again, Blue Rose launched his body into space as Delon’s heels set high in the horse’s neck and dragged clear to the rigging, his shoulders thrown back and chaps flying. By the time the clock ticked off eight seconds, the roar of the crowd drowned out the whistle.
The pickup man rode in and Delon flung an arm around his waist, swinging free of the bucking horse and landing on his feet, only to jump in the air and punch a fist above his head, once, twice, three times as the noise level in the building reached a thundering crescendo.
“Eighty-nine points!” the announcer shouted. “Delon Sanchez has thrown down the gauntlet with his first trip out of the chute. He’s got a lot of ground to make up, but that young Canadian better not stub a toe, or Sanchez will be picking up his third gold buckle.”
Unlike Delon, his rival looked tight and nervous. He made a decent ride, but at eighty-one was five points shy of placing. When it was all said and done, Delon had won the go ’round.
“Sweet!” Hank held up a palm for Grace to slap. “Twenty-six grand for first place. He just closed half the gap with one ride.”
As she watched Cole and Steve pounding Delon’s back in congratulations, Grace had another pang. It was gonna be party time in Vegas tonight, at the ceremony where the round winner and the contractor who owned the horse were presented trophy buckles. Grace could picture them all: Delon and Violet with Beni grinning ear to ear between them, flanked by Tori and Joe, Steve and Iris, Cole and Shawnee, and Gil and Merle Sanchez. As family portraits went, it didn’t get any better.
A commercial for Justin Boots began to play, and Hank stood to gather their plates, catching the yawn Grace tried to stifle. “Wanna crawl up above to watch the rest?” he asked.
“I’ll doze off if I get too comfortable,” she warned.
“And you’ll already be in bed, with someone to turn off the lights and the television after you crash.” He waited a beat, then added, “If you don’t mind me staying.”
“Um, no. That’s fine.” Somehow she would suffer through having Hank wrapped around her all night.
He paused the television while she brushed her teeth, then climbed the steps into the nose of the trailer and crawled into the waiting circle of his arms. He pulled her into another of those slow, easy kisses, just hot enough to get her blood humming again. Then he settled her head on his chest and her arm around his waist and aimed the remote at the television, where the first steer wrestler was frozen on the screen, about to nod for his steer.
Grace had a hard time focusing on the action, her senses too full of Hank: his scent, the hard muscle pressed along the length of her body, his fingers toying with her curls. He couldn’t seem to get close enough, and it made her feel precious, but at the same time powerful. He wanted her. She flattened her palm down his side and along the lean curve of his hip, reveling in the freedom to touch him.
She was playing a dangerous game of chicken with her heart, though. Whatever this was on his part—a coping mechanism, a whim, some misguided attempt to make up for not being there before—it would pass, the way it always had.
How close could she let him get before it was too late to avoid a crash?
Chapter 41
It wasn’t what Hank would call morning when Grace wriggled out of his arms. He mumbled in protest, but she fended off his sleepy grab.
“I have to get up.”
He cracked an eye to see it was pitch-dark outside. “Told you I’d do the chores so you could sleep in.”
“I did,” she said. “It’s five thirty.”
Hank swore.
She laughed. “Go back to sleep. I’ll see you tonight?”
He sighed his agreement, buried his face in her pillow, and inhaled. Mmmm. Cookies. He didn’t hear Grace leave. It was after eight when he arrived at the ranch to find Bing dressed as if she had someplace to go, with a bag by her feet. A jolt of panic shot through him. “What’s with the clothes?”
“Good morning, Bing!” she said brightly. “You look great!”
“Sorry.” He belatedly realized she only had her laptop bag, not a suitcase, and breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn’t so pissed about Grace that she’d decided to abandon him.
Johnny shuffled out and glared at her through sleep-drugged eyes. “Why do you look like that?”
She gave him a wide, red-lipped smile. “Wow. The Brookman charm is in full force today.”
He growled and slumped onto the stool across the bar, hair standing on end and the stubble already thick on his jaw. Hank got a cup of the magic potion that would turn Johnny from bear to human and set it in front of him.
“I am going to work.” Bing stood, picking up the computer bag at her feet. “My supervisor emailed and asked if I would do the mandatory chart review that’s supposed to be finished by the end of the year, so I’m borrowing a desk and the high-speed Internet at the Sanchez office.”
Johnny’s head jerked up. “Are you gonna be gone all day?”
“You mean Do you expect us to feed ourselves? Yes.” She put a hand on Hank’s shoulder and turned him toward two tattered cardboard boxes on the living room floor. “That is the sum total of Christmas decorations I could find, and it’s mostly junk. If you go into town today, take the grocery list and don’t come home without a tree and all the trimmings.”
Hank set his coffee down with a clunk. “I don’t know anything about tinsel and crap.”
“Figure it out. And no damn tinsel. It sticks to everything.” She pulled on her coat, plucked the keys for Johnny’s pickup from where they’d been tossed on the bar, and left.
His dad smirked. “Have fun with the shopping, honey.”
“Bullshit,” Hank said. “You’re coming with me.”
Johnny’s brows snapped flat. “The hell I am.”
“Your choice. I’m gonna head on over to Dumas when I’m done with chores.” And at this rate, his old Chevy would be able to navigate the route on its own. “I’m having lunch over there, but you’re welcome to stay here and rustle up something for yourself.”
Johnny breathed out a curse. “I’ll be ready.”
* * *
Three hours later, they stared down the Christmas aisle at the Super Saver store. Johnny poked a nearby box. “There must be twenty kinds of lights. How do you know what to buy?”
“White.” Hank scooped the closest four cartons into their cart. “That way, we don’t have to worry about whether they match whatever else we get.”
“Match? We used to just throw any old thing on there.”
“I remember…which is why we’re getting new stuff.” He held out the smartphone he’d borrowed from his dad to browse for inspiration. “Nowadays, they’re supposed to look like this.”
Johnny recoiled. “I am not doing a pink Christmas tree.”
“There are others. Just swipe.” Hank demonstrated with what he felt was remarkable patience. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Purple.”
Of course. It couldn’t be red or green or even blue. Hank flicked through more screens. “Here. What about this?”
Johnny studied it closely. “Looks pretty easy. We’ve got the white lights. Just gotta grab some purple ornaments and those silver things that wrap around.”
“Garland,” Hank read from a package he’d picked up farther down the aisle. Then he spotted some three-dimensional silver snowflakes and set one spinning slowly. “Cool.”
“These look classy.” Johnny held up a carton of clear glass balls with silver decorations.
“Nice.” This wasn’t so bad. Hank peered at a ceramic replica of an old-fashioned stone bridge over a frozen pond. When he turned the crank on the display model, tiny skaters began to circle to the tune of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” And for the first time in three years, he would be. Then one of the tiny figures caught his eye, and he grinned. Oh yeah. He had to have one of those.
